


all that you desired, when you were a child

by WingedQuill



Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Baby Witchers, Child Abandonment, Child Abuse, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Curses, Doomed Relationship, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, M/M, Mind Control, Unhappy Ending, Young Love, followed by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26869366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingedQuill/pseuds/WingedQuill
Summary: Geralt is loud, and then he is quiet.Geralt is lonely, and then he is loved.Geralt has a future, and then he doesn't.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950922
Comments: 15
Kudos: 104





	all that you desired, when you were a child

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober days 6 ("Get it out") and 11 (defiance).
> 
> This is actually an AU of my fic [(when you just can't seem) to shake the weight of living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23416249/chapters/56121211). No knowledge of that fic is required for this one, but feel free to go check it out! It's also pretty painful, but it has a happy ending, and I should be updating it pretty soon.

Geralt was born a defiant child, waving his fists at the world and wailing out his displeasure at its injustice—that he was so small and so helpless, and that there were unfair things happening that he couldn’t hope to change. There were elves dying and dwarves being enslaved and whole villages of peasants being menaced by monsters as lords sat comfortably in their castles. He couldn’t know this, of course, being an infant still covered in the blood of his mother’s womb, but he could feel it, anyway, feel that there was something not-quite-right with the world.

His mother sensed the defiance in every cry, sensed the bright, indignant warmth of his mind, sensed the magic bubbling up inside him—so like hers but so different. Hers was a magic that could soften the world, his was a magic that could change it. A powerful thing, a special thing. A strength meant for something far greater than closing wounds and setting bones.

She tried to deny that as long as she could. He was her only child, a gift she’d thought she’d never be given, considering the barrenness that magic often wrecked upon its wielders. But he wasn’t hers to keep. She realized that as he grew alongside her, as his eyes constantly searched the woods for something wider, a hunger burning in him that no amount of fresh-baked bread and simple jellies could sate. He wanted to taste the world, and see it, and  _ alter  _ it, and he couldn’t do that from the safety of her small cottage.

So when he was six years old, she bundled him in her cart and set off into the woods, heading for the road to Kaedwan, where the witchers would be passing this time of year. There would be other travelers, too, but she knew in her bones—in the part of her that was much more attuned to destiny than the average woman—that her son would not be taken by any of them. He would make it safely to their keep.

(Her bones did not tell her what would happen to him after that. Had she known, she never would have given him up. She would have held him close and spit in Destiny’s eye and run until the world ended around her.)

She listened to his cheerful babble, his stream of questions, with a lead-heavy heart and a coal-hot mouth, and every word he spoke brought her closer to tears. Because he was her  _ baby,  _ and she was his  _ mother,  _ and she was  _ leaving him. _

_ For the best,  _ she told herself firmly.  _ For the best. _

She found a good spot on the road, handed him a bucket, and told him to go fill it with water. He smiled up at her, and she made herself look him in the face, treasure it, memorize it. This last glance she would ever get at her son.

And then, after he walked away, she flicked the reins and drove the horses on. Then, and only then, she could let her tears spill over her hands and curse her own inadequacy.

***

No one wanted Geralt to talk. He learned that as soon as his mother left him for asking her too many questions. He learned it a second time when two of the other little witchers took their plates and moved to a different table after spending five minutes eating next to him. And he learned it for a third time when he was bound to a post and lashed ten times for daring to talk back to an instructor.

_ No more questions _ , he told himself, lying on his side and trying not to aggravate the whip marks on his back.  _ No more loudness. _

He would be quiet. He would be good. And then maybe someone would want him.

***

That promise lasted until Eskel came to Kaer Morhen, one year after Geralt. In that time, Geralt had turned himself into a model student. He was a quick study with a blade, much to Master Vesemir’s delight. He listened to other boys when they boasted of the day's triumphs, and he bit down the part of himself that wanted to ask them for  _ more, more, more, tell me everything you’ve ever learned, everything you’ve ever seen— _

He was quieter. And quieter was good. Quieter meant that people sat next to him, and talked to him, and smiled at him. Quieter meant that he could sleep on his back without whip marks stinging him all night. Quieter meant that, if his mother ever saw him again, she might want him back.

And then Eskel walked up to him where he was reading in a corner, dropped a jug in front of him, and asked him if he’d heard about the giant bumblebees in the woods.

“...no?” Geralt said, bringing down his book to rest on his knees.

“Well  _ I  _ have,” Eskel proclaimed. “I heard some of the older boys talking about them! They’re the size of  _ dogs.” _

_ How is that possible? What kind of dog? Does that mean they can hunt other animals or do they still rely on nectar? _

“Sounds interesting,” he said, turning a page without really looking at it.

“Well I was wondering. If a bee was that big, could it lift really heavy things, or would it be just as weak as a normal bee?”

He looked at Geralt like he was expecting an answer. Geralt’s fingers twitched on his book.  _ Quiet. Stay quiet. People like it when you’re quiet. _

But Eskel was  _ loud.  _ And Geralt liked him. So what did that mean?

“Think it would be stronger,” he said at last. “Right? Its muscles would be bigger.”

“Do bees even  _ have  _ muscles?”

Geralt frowned, tilting his head.

“Well, how else would they fly?”

“How else indeed,” Eskel mused. “Alright, get up. We’re burning daylight!”

“We?”

“Yes,  _ we!  _ You don’t think I’m about to go into a forest full of giant bees  _ alone,  _ do you?”

“I suppose that would be silly,” Geralt smiled, and left his book on the stairs.

***

After that, he let himself be loud. Not all the time, not with everyone. But with Eskel. When they were alone, in the woods, in the fields, paddling through the lakes and streams. With him, he could be as nonsensical as he wanted to be, ask a thousand pointless questions that went nowhere, and Eskel treated them like they were as precious as gold. Pondered them, brow furrowed like he was a scholar investigating the secrets of life, and then asked an equally ridiculous one back.

For a few, short years, Geralt had his laughter back. Had the bright, churning mind that his mother sent him off into the world for. And he thought he could be happy. He really did. 

“We can walk the Path,” he told Eskel one night, as they lay side-by-side in a starlit meadow. “Like all the other witchers, just for a bit. But that doesn’t have to be our lives forever, does it?”

Eskel rolled over to face Geralt, squinting in confusion.

“A witcher’s life  _ is  _ the Path,” he said. “That’s what the masters always tell us.”

“Who says we have to be just witchers?” Geralt said. He scooted closer to Eskel, feeling that this, more than anything else, was  _ important.  _ “We’ll be people too, won’t we?”

Eskel smiled at him. He reached out, hesitating for a moment, before resting his hand on the curve of Geralt’s cheek.

“People and witchers,” he mused. “What a life that will be.”

“What stories we’ll have,” Geralt agreed. And, because he was young and bright and so certain he had a future, he saw no harm in leaning forward to kiss Eskel.

It was soft. Gentle. And Eskel didn’t pull away. He stayed against Geralt’s lips, and laughed a little bit, and cried a little bit more, and Geralt was certain, with every fiber of his being, that this was what love was.

***

They got another year of happiness before the trials. Another year of loudness, of questions and answers, of hesitant kisses and laughter, of love, love, so much love that Geralt was sure they must be draining it from the rest of the world.

He said as much to Eskel once, and Eskel just giggled at him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. 

“Always worrying about the rest of the world,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s cheek. “You’ll be a great witcher, you know that, right?”

“Be a better artist,” Geralt said, because that was what he wanted to do when he was done being a witcher.

“Indeed,” Eskel agreed. “You’ll paint the world way prettier than it is.”

“I’ll paint the world how I see it.”

“You will, huh? Well then, I can’t wait to see it.”

Eskel always seemed to say just the right thing to assure Geralt that he was  _ good,  _ even though he couldn’t be quiet.

***

And then they were taken to small stone rooms and strapped down to small stone tables and told to bite down on bits of leather. Geralt took it between his teeth and told himself to be brave, to be strong. If he was strong enough he could be there for Eskel, after it all. And they could walk the Path together, and meet the world together, and find out what it was to be people-witchers.

(It never occurred to him that Eskel might not survive the trials. Such a thought was as unfathomable as a world without an end.)

Geralt breathed in, closed his eyes, and curled his hands into fists.

This was the last motion he would be able to dictate for a long,  _ long  _ time.

***

The grasses burned.

***

The dreams burned.

***

And then something slipped into his skull and undulated throughout every nerve of his body. 

***

In another world, a kinder world, Geralt didn't have magic. And he was just like every other witcher, in the way this curse worked on him. It lurked undetected in his blood for decades, steering him away from every thought he had about leaving the Path. And he was happy with his life—or content at least. He didn’t know that that life wasn’t really his. He could choose where it went, at least to some extent. He could choose to be soft on his horses, and get up early to watch the sunrise, and go out of his way to save monsters.

He could breathe on his own.

It wasn’t much of a freedom. Not freedom at all, really. But it was still better than this.

***

In this world, Geralt woke from the trials feeling  _ wrong,  _ **_wrong,_ ** _ get it out of me, get it out of me,  _ **_get it out—_ **

His magic, the magic that his mother had seen sparking through him, flared to life, spotting the intruder as it tried to hide. It dug down into his brian, furious and indignant that a thrall would dare take up residence there, would  _ dare  _ try to control Geralt.

The curse responded with a dizzying shock that raced through Geralt’s nerves like lightning. Geralt opened his mouth to scream, but it was slammed shut just as quickly, and— _ what? He didn’t want to do that, he didn’t want to be silent in the face of this agony, what was  _ **_making_ ** _ him, what was  _ **_happening—?_ **

His magic shrieked, tugging furiously at the binds that yanked at his muscles like puppet strings.  _ Get it out, get it out, get it out, get it out— _

But the binds, the curse that made them, was a far older and more powerful thing than one frantic, half-dead boy. It pinned his muscles to the bed, holding his body still even as his magic thrashed in indignation.

_ Stop struggling. Stop fighting. _

But Geralt was born a defiant child, and even though he’d bowed before the will of Kaer Morhen’s instructors, he refused to bow to something that wanted to take away everything he was.

So he fought. He fought and he raged, and he poured all his strength, all his magic, into twitching a single finger.

_ Get it out, get it out,  _ **_get it out of me—_ **

He could almost hear a sigh in his head. A  _ very well, then. _

And then it broke him.

There wasn’t another word to describe it. It raced through him far faster than his magic could ever hope to be, tying knots through every muscle and every nerve, turning his body into a prison. His magic tried to fight it, tried to  _ stop it,  _ but that just seemed to spur it faster. He felt it creep into his lungs and snatch them out of his grasp, felt it bind his voice box with a dozen fine threads, felt it stab its stitching needle into his fluttering eyelids. Before he could even gasp, or blink, or scream for help, those abilities were taken from him.

The  _ thing  _ beat his magic back further and further, corralling it deep in his chest. Still it snarled and fought, trying to burn away the bars that had imprisoned him. Another sigh from inside his head.

_ What a waste. _

And then the bars contracted.

And they _burned,_ and they _hurt,_ and his magic howled in agony as its cage got smaller, smaller, crushing it and breaking it and—

Geralt had been born with a magic like his mother’s, but different. It would have been something beautiful, were it left to flourish. Would have wowed the world with art too beautiful to describe, would have protected fleeing nonhumans with spells of invisibility, strength, endurance. Would have made his and Eskel’s wedding rings shine like the bright stars they first kissed under.

Now, it was pressed into a hot, useless lump of coal and forced into his fingers. It would fuel his signs, and his signs alone. He’d be just like every other witcher.

***

He wasn’t sure what had happened to him at first. The suddenness and shock and  _ pain  _ of it made it difficult to work out.

He realized, after hours of trying to hold his breath, to twitch a finger, to whisper that he was alive, to do  _ anything  _ at all.

His body wasn’t his anymore.

He tried to go somewhere else at that revelation, tried to go back to the starlit meadow with Eskel, tried to go to their beautiful future that would never be.

Tried to cry for its loss, for  _ his  _ loss.

Nothing he tried worked.

***

Eskel was there, laughing and grinning and blinking with big, yellow eyes. 

“You’re awake!” he said, flopping to the bed next to Geralt. “You’re  _ alive!” _

_ We’re both alive, we did it, I love you,  _ **_I love you._ **

Something Else sat him up and faced Eskel. Something Else kept his arms at his sides when Eskel swept him into a hug. Something Else pulled away when Eskel kissed him.

Eskel drew back, hurt flashing through his strange, new eyes, and Geralt knew then that there wasn’t a Something Else in him.

(He was wrong. Eskel’s curse was just a little subtler.)

“What’s wrong?” Eskel asked. He bit his lip. “We—we survived. We did it. We’re witchers. Aren’t you—aren’t you happy that I’m here?”

_ More than anything, I love you, I  _ **_love_ ** _ him,  _ **_let me tell him I love him._ **

Something Else pulled his lips into a frown.

“We’re not children anymore,” it said with Geralt’s voice. 

It got to his feet and gathered his sword, ignoring Eskel’s hitching breath and shaking voice and quiet demands for answers. It didn’t even let Geralt look at him.

“We’re witchers now,” it said. 

“We’re people too,” Eskel replied. “You’re the one who told me that, Geralt,  _ why—?” _

“I know better now,” it said. “We’re witchers. Nothing more.”

_ I’m sorry,  _ Geralt thought as hard as he could.  _ I love you,  _ **_I love you,_ ** _ please  _ **_listen_ ** _ to me,  _ **_that’s not me._ **

Eskel didn’t respond. He can’t hear Geralt anymore.

Something Else opened the door and walked Geralt back into quiet. 

  
  



End file.
